A Touch from Beyond
by docs pupil
Summary: What if the Fade bled through the Inquisitor's Mark?
1. Cullen's Nightmare (un-romanced)

_(Takes place shortly after the masquerade at the Winter Palace, and before the commencement of the storming of the Red Templar base. [Not Therinfall Redoubt.])_

With a scowl stuck to his face, Commander Cullen enters the Winter Palace ballroom and takes his place in the far corner, hoping to not be noticed.

Faster than he ever assumed possible of sociable Orlesians, a group of twelve well-dressed royals crowd around him, asking unintelligible questions.

The Commander groans his dissatisfaction, massaging his temples. "Will you all please...just go away!"

"It sings," Leliana mentions to some arbitrary Lord, her easy smile still plastered on her face. "Louder and sweeter than anything before it."

"What?" He ignores his headache, looking over at the woman only a few feet away.

"It sings," says the Lord, turning to stare at the Commander with glowing red eyes shining menacingly behind his porcelain mask.

"It sings," parrots another royal, grabbing his arm, the same corrupted stare boring into him.

Soon the crowd around him repeat their menacing mantra, grabbing at him viciously.

In a panic, the former Templar, struggles from their hold, running through the crowded room, and down the grand stairs onto the ballroom floor. He sees the Inquisitor, walking calmly across the cream-colored, reflective tiles, a proud look in her eye and a wide smile stretching across her face.

"Inquisitor," he calls to her as she reaches the bottom of the stairs on the other side of the room.

No acknowledgment is given to the scared man as she climbs the stairs, oblivious to the looming shadow before her. At the top of the stairs, she turns to beckon him to her side.

In the middle of the ballroom floor, he screams at the top of his lungs "Inquisitor," but the warning falls silent, as does the gilded world surrounding him. The lifeless porcelain faces turn in unison to look at the Corrupted General Samson stepping forward, drawing his sword from his sheath.

Still insistently beckoning, a shard of sharpened red lyrium pierces through her, turning her joyous expression to one of shock and fear.

"No!" Cullen tries running toward her, but his feet weigh him down like blocks of lead.

Samson rips the blade from her body, laughing at the wounded warrior as she transforms into a statue of the same material that tore into her.

He finally reaches her, trying to move her frozen form away from the cackling Red Templar. His touch breaks her into a thousand pieces, and the blinding red flash of light throws him back down the staircase, sliding across the polished floor. Cullen shakes off his disorientation, blinking the sense back into his head. "Maker," he whispers, a feeling of utter defeat washing over him. "No."

The soft blue and creamy white paint on the walls has flaked away from age. The shining ballroom floor, is cracked and weathered, with sharp bundles of corrupted lyrium bursting from between the squares and triangles. The attendants are all frozen in place, turned red, just as the Inquisitor was.

He stands in the midst of the destruction, clenching his fists hard, feeling his anger rising up inside of him.

Behind him, Samson roars, charging at the unarmed Commander with his sword drawn.

Cullen wakes with a start, covered in sweat and shivering. He throws back the covers, sitting up, feeling his headache coming back. Deciding a walk in the night air might do him some good, he throws on his clothing, but not his armor, and forces himself to think of anything else besides his dream.

He leaves the warmth of his office, relishing the blash of cold mountain air on his face.

Twirling across the ramparts, an elf waltzes alone in the dark, humming. "Oh..." the Inquisitor immediately stops her awkward dancing, seeing her unarmored Tactical Advisor. "Commander."

"Inquisitor." He salutes. "Am I disturbing you?"

"Not really." She hums a tune from the Winter Palace, as she skips past him on the ramparts, clapping her hands. Suddenly, the elvan warrior stops in mid stride turning back to him. "Actually, could I speak with you about something?"

"Of course."

She stands beside him, staring out into the same vast wilderness of ice and snow. "Speaking as warriors, and not as leader to Advisor, how do you get rid of your nervousness?" She looks away for a second, almost ashamed, but quickly saves face, trying to be as nonchalant as possible.

He smirks, almost imperceptibly, then shares with her the wisdom he discovered from within himself not long ago.


	2. Leliana's Nightmare

_(Takes place shortly after Leliana receives the Divine's last will missive, and before requesting the Inquisitor's help in resolving the matter.)_

Standing on the crest of a snowy hillside, Leliana stares up at the crescent moon, unfeeling of anything but the bitter cold of the endless mountains surrounding her.

A lonely, black crow signals it's return from beyond the massive mountain range with a shrill caw.

She holds out her arm to the bird, waiting for it to perch comfortably before unwinding the message tied to its left leg. In bloody letters she reads: "Trust no one."

The bird flies away, dropping a dagger at her feet.

As she stoops to pick it up, the crunching of frantic footsteps leads her to the bottom of the hill, seeing a lightly armored dwarf dragging herself along the snow, holding tightly to her gut. The dying Inquisitor whispers "Leli-ana" with her last breath, going limp and lifeless.

She stands there, dumbfounded, looking down at her hands holding a now bloodied dagger in her left hand, with her right hand dripping with blood.

A murder of crows scatter in all directions from behind her, revealing a dark passageway just large enough for her to crawl through. Without consciously choosing, the former Bard climbs through the long tunnel, hands and knees dirtying with soot and dust. Warm, orange candlelight wraps her in a feeling of assurance, somehow signaling the end of the journey.

Stepping silently from the tunnel, she hears someone softly crying in the distance, hidden amongst the trees and bushes bathed in an un-natural orange glow. She slides down the side of a steep incline, following the crying down a dirt road.

The scene at the end of the road is familiar. "The Crossroads, in the Hinterlands," she tells herself.

Kneeling at the edge of the shallow pond, is the golden silk-clad Diplomat, crying over the pool of water.

Leliana eyeballs the too quiet grassy hills and distant buildings, all devoid of even the smallest of insects. The almost deafening silence heightens the volume of her footsteps in the grass, and the soft clinking of her chain mail.

She stoops down at the edge of the pond as well, across from her crying friend. In the dark, murky depths, the faint figure of a woman dressed in an Initiates robe floats at the bottom.

The Spymaster brushes away the small lilly pads, squinting hard at the woman in the water.

Josephine stops crying, staring at her with reddened, swollen eyes.

Unsure of why she suddenly feels fearful of her gaze, the Bard looks her in the eye.

The Diplomat lunges at her, yelling her name. "Leliana!"

The Spymaster jolts awake, seeing Josephine standing over her poking at her shoulder with her pen handle.

"Leliana, you fell asleep sitting up again. Perhaps you should lie down and rest properly," she suggests.

"Of course," she calmly replies, examining first her clean, gloved hands, then her friend.

"Are you feeling well," the dainty Antivan wonders. "You a little pale."

"Don't worry, about me Josie." She slowly rises from her seat, hand firmly planted on the table. "It was just a dream."

"I see." She frowns a little, but knows better than to keep prodding her. "Sleep well, then, Leliana."


End file.
